


The Seaweed to your Sashimi

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you’re the squid, I’ll be your seaweed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seaweed to your Sashimi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diagon/gifts).



> Set during the Hiroshima gigs of the Tone tour.

Changmin drops down onto a chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. He stares at his feet as if they belong to someone else. They hurt. Everything hurts. His throat is scratchy, his chest tight. His pulse is still racing. His ears ring with the aftershock of screams from thousands of fans and from the disorienting hiss of feedback. Another night, another concert, and yet the end of the tour seems so far away.

“Ungrateful bastard,” he tells himself, and reaches for one of the bottles of mineral water on the nearest dressing table. He twists at the cap for a while without managing to break the seal. He’s more exhausted than he thought. Either that or he’s lost so much weight over the past few months that he’s turned into a complete weed. He’s not sure which one he prefers.

The dressing room door bangs open and Yunho bounces in. He’s in the middle of a conversation. “And then the crab chased me through the perfume section of a department store, and it looked like Isetan in Shinjuku, but it was on the eleventh floor, and then it turned into a spider crab, a really big one, and it _laughed_ —”

Changmin tilts his head, waiting for whoever was on the receiving end of Yunho’s weird conversation to follow him into the room. 

The door swings shut. 

Changmin tries not to laugh. Instead he holds out the bottle of water and looks wide-eyed and appealing.

Yunho takes the bottle and continues with his monologue without missing a beat. “Now I’m sure the crab giggled at me last time, but this time it actually laughed, and it waved its pincers, and that was scary. Except I didn’t think it meant to be scary, because it was smiling. Can crabs smile? I mean, do they have mouths? Or just those little twitchy bits?” Yunho hands back the bottle, cap loosened, and crooks two fingers in front of his lips in imitation of a crab’s mandibles, or twitchy bits, or whatever the hell a crab has in place of a mouth. He gives Changmin an enquiring look.

Changmin lifts his shoulders. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My second crab dream. Or maybe it’s the third.” Yunho thinks for a moment. “The third. Three crab dreams.” 

“What’s that saying? ‘If you lie down with dogs...’” Changmin uncaps the bottle and takes a long swig of water.

Yunho blinks at him. “What?”

Changmin swallows. Gestures with the bottle. “Crabs. That’s how you get them.”

“Typhoon doesn’t have crabs. He doesn’t even have fleas.” Yunho looks baffled.

Deciding that silence is the best option, Changmin nods seriously and has another drink.

“Anyway,” Yunho says, leaning against the dressing table and stretching in a way that would induce nosebleeds in at least half of tonight’s audience, “after the crab laughed at me, it smashed out of the window and parachuted onto the street.”

“It parachuted, huh.” Changmin drags his attention from the positively sinful arch of Yunho’s back and the way his chest is thrust out; tears his gaze from the tension in Yunho’s muscles and the pale skin of the underside of his arms and the dark, damp hair of his armpit just revealed by the capped sleeve of his tour t-shirt. Changmin takes a longer pull on the bottled water. “Parachuting action crabs. Maybe they can make a film.”

“You could be in it.” Yunho relaxes and smiles. “The crabs would try to cut your hair. Snip, snip.”

“You’re deranged.” Changmin finishes the water and tosses the bottle at the rubbish bin. “You should see a shrink. I’m serious. Academics would line up to write about your weird dreams.”

“They’re not that weird,” Yunho says. “Some types of food release chemicals in the brain and stuff. Maybe crabmeat does that to me.”

Changmin snorts. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re naturally crazy.”

“That’s probably it.” Yunho gives him a beaming smile. “Anyway, a dream about giant crabs chasing me and giggling is nothing. One time I dreamed that I had to play a bassoon at a pile of frogs, otherwise a dam would fall down and there were huge waves coming at us, waves like that Japanese artist’s waves, you know, like that famous picture...”

“Hokusai?” Changmin suggests, then wonders why he’s bothering. It’s like giving a toddler crayons and pointing him at a pristine white wall.

“Yes, him.” Yunho nods. He looks pleased, as if knowing the name of the artist unlocks the meaning of his freaky-assed dream.

Changmin stares. Shakes his head slowly. “Why are you so hopeless?”

Yunho’s smile intensifies. “Because I give it all away to people who need it.”

Of course he would have a smart answer. Changmin wrinkles his nose, unable to think of something smarter still. “Well, I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why,” Yunho says softly, opening his eyes wide, “do you want some?”

The breath catches in Changmin’s throat. His heart does that stupid _ba-bump_ thing, skipping a beat and then doing double time, just like in songs. He always thought that was artistic license, and then Yunho happened. Maybe Yunho is artistic license personified. What a terrifying thought. Changmin cringes from it. “No.”

Yunho grins, hops up onto the dressing table, and pokes at Changmin’s leg with his foot. “Anyway, my crab dreams are completely normal. You were the one talking about being sushi.”

It’s a measure of his weariness—and nothing at all to do with the gentle pressure of Yunho’s foot against his thigh—that Changmin is completely confused by the reference. “Huh?”

“Tonight,” Yunho says, nodding beyond the door in the direction of the stage, making a slow spinning motion with one hand. “You said you felt like sushi.”

Oh, that. Changmin grimaces. Not his best attempt at MCing. He’s been short of witty banter for a while now. It’s easier to speak the truth, but the fans just think he’s being funny and sarcastic when in actual fact he’s voicing genuine complaints. His manager always scolds him the moment he steps backstage. As if anyone gives a fuck. Exhaustion crawls over him, presses him down onto the chair. 

“Yeah. Just...” His voice tails off into silence. Changmin digs the heel of his hand into the curve of his cheekbone, covering his left eye. His fringe, so long now it’s curling naturally at the ends, is enough to hide the rest of his expression. 

Yunho makes a small noise. He gets down from the dressing table and comes to stand behind the chair. He places both hands on Changmin’s shoulders. Not rubbing, not squeezing; just touching.

Changmin splays his own hand across his face. Brushes back his fringe. His hair is damp with sweat and water, tacky in places with the residue of gel and hairspray. He lets it tumble forward again. Closes his eyes and leans back slightly, very slightly, into Yunho’s hands. “You said you were seaweed.”

“If you’re the squid, I’ll be your seaweed.”

On stage it was a joke. It’s just as stupid now, of course, but Changmin can’t help himself. Maybe his brain has gone soft and he likes stupid jokes. He touches Yunho’s left hand. “Wrap me up.”

Yunho leans down, runs both arms around Changmin’s neck, and holds him from behind. He nuzzles through Changmin’s hair, buries his face against Changmin’s nape. Yunho’s lips are warm and soft. Changmin feels the whisper of Yunho’s breath, feels goosebumps trickle along his arms and a shiver curl its way up his spine. Yunho murmurs something sweet and nonsensical and licks at the back of Changmin’s neck.

Arousal jolts through him, sharp and urgent. It bumps against his exhaustion, fires him up with sudden, frantic energy. He grabs at Yunho. “Come here, seaweed.” He takes hold of Yunho’s wrist, pulls him around to sit sideways. Yunho gives him a heart-stopping smile and laughs, squirming into a more comfortable position. Changmin catches him around the waist. He’s got a lapful of wriggly, giggly Yunho. He tries not to feel too smug.

Yunho kisses him, brushes back his hair. “Love you, sashimi.”

Yeah, not feeling smug. Not at all. Changmin lifts his chin, demanding more kisses. “Chopped raw seafood, nice.”

Yunho’s laughter tickles at him. “Dried algae, sexy.”

“Taste good together, though,” Changmin says.

“Mm.” Yunho’s agreement is more of a sigh, an exhalation into another kiss. Changmin pulls him closer, nips at the plump swell of Yunho’s lower lip. Yunho makes a hot little growly noise and digs his fingers into Changmin’s shoulders. Changmin sucks on Yunho’s lip, licks at his mouth. Yunho makes another stupidly sexy sound and crushes tighter against him.

Now he has a lapful of hard, aroused Yunho, heat blazing from him, sweat and lust the only thing Changmin can smell and taste. He’s too turned-on to feel smug now, his cock stiff and aching within his jeans. “Seaweed,” he says, half gasping, “wrap around me some more.”

Yunho slides off Changmin’s lap. He locks the dressing room door, comes back to Changmin, and gets on his knees.

Changmin spreads his legs, lets Yunho crawl between his thighs. He closes both hands around the side of the chair and groans as Yunho unbuttons him. His breathing slows down even as his pulse picks up. He opens his legs a little wider, feels the grip of the denim tighten. Yunho coos at him, hands busy with zipper and underwear, and Changmin clings to the chair and lifts his hips, thrusts up for Yunho’s mouth in blatant, greedy demand.

“Hurry.” That’s not what he meant to say, but Changmin doesn’t care. A moan of appreciation skims out of him as Yunho cups Changmin’s dick between his hands and sinks his mouth down around it.

Yunho sucks on him nice and hard, just enough pressure, and the heat, oh _fuck_ , the heat is incredible. Changmin lets him dictate it for now, content to just float on the sensation. He tamps down on the urge to rut, giving himself over to the pace Yunho sets. Changmin closes his eyes, lets Yunho draw pleasure out of him. Images and thoughts flicker behind his eyelids. Yunho is not seaweed. Maybe more like toasted marshmallow, sweet and sticky. Or butter. Changmin thinks of hot knives through butter and wooden sticks through marshmallows and— _why_ is this turning him on? God, he’s tired; tired and really, really horny, and he has to stop spending so much time with Yunho because his usually rational thought patterns are all shot to hell.

He jerks his hips, wanting control of the ride. Yunho nuzzles closer, changing the angle of his mouth on Changmin’s cock. Changmin feels just the slightest hint of teeth as Yunho works up the shaft. He tongues at the vein on the underside, pulls off completely and dabs at the slippery, gleaming slit. He looks up, wicked and knowing, the head of Changmin’s cock hard and red against the softness of pouted lips. Changmin makes a strangled noise and sits forward.

Yunho looks startled. That’s a good thing. He’s not sucking Changmin’s dick any more. That’s a bad thing. Changmin scoots to the very front of the chair, grabs his cock and gives it a couple of long, luxurious strokes, his gaze fixed to Yunho’s mouth. “Take your t-shirt off,” Changmin says. “Want to see you.”

Happy to oblige, Yunho lifts the tour t-shirt over his head and hooks it around the back of his neck. His chest is glowing with sweat, the light catching and striping his skin. His nipples are hard. Changmin guides his cock back into Yunho’s mouth then slides both hands down over Yunho’s chest. He fingers his nipples. Tugs at them. 

Yunho makes a smothered sound and swallows more of Changmin’s cock.

Changmin gives a breathless laugh. “Yeah. That noise. Make it again.”

Yunho arches his back and pushes against Changmin’s hands. Changmin catches at Yunho’s nipples again, rolls them, twists them, does it hard. Yunho moans, the noise burning straight through Changmin’s cock and lighting fierce sparks of lust. He lets go, leans back and thrusts up, gagging the sound.

Changmin spreads his legs, forcing them wider and wider until the tendons along the inside of his thighs pull and ache, cranking his lust even higher, discomfort digging in alongside desire. His muscles will complain like a bitch tomorrow but he doesn’t care; he wants this, wants Yunho’s mouth on him, wants to spill himself down Yunho’s throat. He thrusts and thrusts, his hands in Yunho’s hair, fingers sliding around to the back of Yunho’s head. 

“Take me. All of me. Shit, Yunnie, your mouth, oh _God_ , your mouth...” Changmin ruts into him, into tight wet heat, the suction intense, the expression of slavish concentration on Yunho’s face beautiful, incredible. Changmin gasps, shakes with the force of his desire. “Fucking your mouth, baby. You want it so bad. You want to swallow my cock like a good boy.”

Yunho gives a muffled groan of affirmation punctuated by slurped, sexy wet sounds, saliva slicking down his chin.

“So good,” Changmin pants, heartbeat thundering, his breaths shallow and staccato. “Oh baby, you’re hot, so hot. Not gonna let you stop. Want to keep you like this forever, keep you on your knees for me. Oh please.” Faster, desperate, need leashes him in, his fingers tightening in Yunho’s hair. Sparks fly in darkness, heat consuming him, exhaustion spiralling, dragging, pulling against him, keeping him held on the edge, held between Yunho’s lips, aching, yearning— _please, please let me come_ —and Yunho curls both hands around Changmin’s thighs, purrs encouragement, coaxes with his tongue—

—and Changmin teeters, almost, almost, the stuttering kick of orgasm rolling at him, and he’s in freefall, pleasure playing catch-up, and he can’t stop it now, God no, fuck no, this is too good, he feels alive, rides the pulse of seed as it shoots from him into Yunho’s mouth.

Yunho’s throat works as he tries to drink it all down. He struggles slightly, bucks his head back against the clamp of Changmin’s hands. Spunk dribbles from the corner of his mouth, spools down from his chin to drip pearly onto his chest.

“Fuck,” Changmin sobs. “Oh, fuck.” He releases Yunho but keeps one hand in his hair, rocks forward and stares at the floor, his head spinning, chest heaving, ecstasy leaving him storm-tossed.

Yunho half sprawls at Changmin’s feet, gasping for breath, fingers at his mouth, over his chest, cleaning up the spilled semen, licking at it. He rests his head against Changmin’s knee. His hair is a mess. His eyelashes are wet. Body damp with heat and sweat, Yunho smells of sex and looks thoroughly debauched. The curve of his lower lip is so full and ripe and bruised that Changmin feels a fresh surge of arousal go through him. 

They stay like that for a long moment. Changmin strokes Yunho’s hair. Yunho nuzzles at Changmin’s thigh through the denim of his jeans, whispers, “Love you, love you, love you,” and Changmin stays silent, strokes Yunho’s hair some more, strokes the side of his face and his throat until Yunho looks up and smiles at him.

_Thank you_ , Changmin wants to say, but he’s never been good at expressing himself, and he’s so tired he just wants to curl up and sleep for a week. He pulls at the t-shirt still twisted over Yunho’s shoulders and says, “Bed. Sleep. Us. Now.”

“Anything you want.” Yunho kneels up, unhooks the t-shirt and covers himself. He gets to his feet, stretches again, gives a happy little sigh then says, “By the way, you really shouldn’t put yourself down like that.”

Changmin glances up at him. “What?”

Yunho unlocks the door. “I don’t think you’re a dog.” He pauses, gives Changmin a twinkling look just before he makes his escape. “And you don’t have crabs, either.”

Changmin stares after him. Splutters for a moment, then laughs. He’s too tired to do anything else, and anyway, he deserved that. Yeah, he deserved all of it, and if he dreams of parachuting crabs tonight, he knows where to lay the blame.


End file.
